


Tea and Aliens

by Icka M Chif (mischif)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aliens, Alternate Universe, BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Community: sherlockbbc_fic, Gen, Kink Meme, Tea, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-12
Updated: 2011-06-12
Packaged: 2017-10-21 03:53:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/220617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mischif/pseuds/Icka%20M%20Chif
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>There was an alien on the ceiling </i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tea and Aliens

**Author's Note:**

> Based off [this prompt on the BBC Sherlock Kinkmeme](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/9100.html?thread=42219404#t42219404).  
> Written in under 18 hours! Hah!

There was an alien on the ceiling.

John stared at it for a moment.

It looked like a cross between a human and one of those American Roswell Grey aliens, with pale, almost translucent jellyfish tentacles stuck onto the back, like wiggly porcupine quills.

The alien stared back.

Part of John’s brain noted that at least it was an interesting change of pace from thinking he was still stuck back in Afghanistan, the gun a steady presence in his hand or at his side.

He probably should stop reading the newspaper so late before bed, it was giving him all sorts of ideas.

Except… he had no gun on him. There was no scent of sand, sharp and acidic in his nose, in his close. No weight of the gun on his side, and his hands were empty.

Therefore he couldn’t be dreaming.

And there was still an alien on the ceiling.

The pain in his shoulder and leg caught him off guard as he yawned, pain flaring white hot for a moment. Yet another sign he wasn’t dreaming, he was always whole in his dreams. The alien just watched him, head tilting to the side as if John was doing some sort of trick.

He had a sleepy hunch in his gut that if it hadn’t tried to kill him while he was sleeping, it probably wasn’t going to now.

“Hullo.” John said to the alien. “Would you like a cuppa tea?”

The alien stared back, head tilting the other way as large deep black eyes blinking sideways. It looked confused, he mused with some dry amusement.

When in doubt, make tea.

He reached for his cane and used it to lever himself upright before puttering towards the small sink that housed the cheap electric kettle in the small residence room. The alien was the most colourful thing in the room, the blue-white skin a nice change of pace from the beige that made up everything.

He was really starting to hate beige. He needed to get out of here, find a flat. To do that, he had to find a job, and there wasn’t much of a market for wounded ex-soldiers with damaged shoulders and a psychosomatic limp.

”I don’t have any milk.” He apologised. Milk was a luxury that he couldn’t afford right now. “Only the powdered creamer. And sugar. You’re welcome to either if you want it.”

The alien floated down from the ceiling, tentacles rippling and trailing after like it was underwater. It moved closer to John, staring at him like he was the most amazing thing the alien had never seen.

John tiredly smiled back. Earth, more precisely London, had been approached by aliens for the first time in recorded history, in peace. Called the ‘Cagersi’, or something like that.

There were still some rumours about an alien invasion or two happening around Christmas time, but John had been busy overseas when they happened and didn’t know anything about them.

But these aliens had the government stamp of approval, something along the lines of ‘If the Doctor says it’s okay, then it’s okay with us.’

Whoever the Doctor was.

”I’m not that interesting.” He said as the alien drifted around, staring at him from all angles. “Really.”

The look he got back clearly stated that the alien thought he was an idiot. “What’s your name?” John asked, leaning back against the counter. “I’m John. John Watson.”

The alien opened its mouth, or at least mouth-like orifice, then shut it with a look of annoyance.

”Thought you had one of those translator things.” John commented. The alien gave him a severe look, gesturing to its body as if asking did it _look_ like it had some sort of device on it?

John looked over the long pale body, devoid of any clothing. “No, I guess not.” He agreed. “Sorry.”

The alien made a dismissive gesture with one long hand, the tentacles coming off the back of the upper arms waving like a banner.

John couldn’t think of anything else to day, lapsing into silence as he waited for the kettle to boil. The alien’s attention drifted away from him to the rest of the room, long pale tendrils reaching out to touch everything. The walls, the dresser, the bed.

John vaguely remembered reading an article about them, something about the tentacles aiding in mobility on their planet. The gravity on their home planet was much stronger than Earth, so they almost floated here, like astronauts did on the moon. It looked like they were also sensory organs.

He wondered how different their physiology was. Circulatory system, digestive, nervous, reproductive, respiratory … They had to be completely different than Earth. It was a miracle they could survive in the atmosphere at all.

The electric kettle whistled and he startled, reaching over to pour the water into the two mugs he had. He added the tea bags, then let them steep. It wasn’t the same without a proper teapot, but he could make due.

The alien watched him do it, hovering within touching distance just over his shoulder. “It’ll be hot.” John warned a tentacle reached out, touching the liquid in the mug. It quickly jerked back, singed.

”I warned you.” John couldn’t quite hide his amusement. The alien gave him a look that said John’s sense of humour was not appreciated.

The alien’s attention drifted away, investigating the sink, turning the water off and on, then opening the cupboards and peering inside, figuring out how everything worked. John watched him, counting three minutes in his head before removing the tea bags and doctoring the tea to how he liked it.

”Try it now.” He offered, holding the mug out to the alien, handle out. The alien straightened up, staring at him, eyes round in what John equivocated to shock. Tentacles tentatively touched the side of the ceramic mug, then one of the aliens hands came up, taking the cup and holding it like John was.

”Do aliens drink tea?” John mused as the alien appeared to examine the tea, staring at it like it was some sort of experiment, dipping tentacles into it, appearing to sniff it. It took a tiny tentative sip, contemplating the favour before taking a second one.

It dawned on John he had no idea if tea could be poisonous to alien life. It didn’t seem to be stopping the alien at all however.

”I made it how I drink it, I have no idea how you would prefer it.” He said, rambling a bit as he kept an eye out, making sure the alien didn’t suddenly drop dead in front of him. The last thing he needed was an international incident in his flat. “Little bit of sugar, and a dash of milk if I have it around.”

It appeared to be acceptable, the alien draining the mug, before staring at it blankly, as if surprised it was now empty. “I’ll take that.” John offered, holding his hand out. The alien placed it in his hand, then resumed looking around.

John sipped his tea, watching the alien explore his small room. Finally the alien seemed to grow bored, tendrils drooping slightly as it approached the window.

”Wait.” John drained the dregs of his tea in a big gulp, slamming the mug down as he reached for his coat with one hand, grabbing his cane the other. He limped forward, shoving his arms into the sleeves, opening the dresser drawer and grabbing his gun, tucking it into his waistband. The alien had its head tilted again, as if confused by what John was doing.

”There’s a lot of idiots out there.” John informed him, shoving his socked feet into his shoes. “If you’re going out exploring, you’re not doing it without backup.”

The alien gave him a mildly exasperated look, then waved his tentacles, as if to shrug and say it thought John was being unbearably stupid, but it was up to John. “Right.” John agreed, then looked out the window.

He was on the second floor. It was a good two and a half story drop below him. The alien looked at him expectantly. “I’m going to take the stairs.” John said, making a command decision. “I’ll meet you down there in three minutes. Three minutes. Down there. Got it?”

He got another look as if John was being an idiot, but it amused the alien enough that it would play along. John nodded in return, limping off as fast as he could, shutting the door behind him with a bang that probably disturbed the other occupants on the floor.

The stairs, normally a torture, didn’t seem nearly as bad this time and he was out the back door before he anticipated, looking around for the alien before glancing up.

The alien was lowering itself to the ground, tentacles lashing out every which way, finding grips in wall, the fire escape, window ledges, anywhere it could.

Oh. So that’s how it got into his room.

As soon as it reached ground level, it looked at John, as if asking ‘now what?’.

John shrugged. “Where do you want to go?”

The alien looked around and spread its hands out. Everywhere, John translated.

”Okay. Let’s walk.” He said. The alien nodded, tentacles rippling as it stayed hovering above the ground, feet not quite touching the street.

Everything was of interest to the alien, John quickly learned. Objects were held in John’s direction, silently demanding explanations that John easily gave. He sometimes wondered what would happen if he made something up, like when Wendy put a thimble on Peter Pan’s thumb and said it was a kiss.

Probably a good idea not to mess up cultural relations. He kept his answers short and as honest as he could. It seemed to make the alien happy at least, bouncing from place to place, everything new and interesting.

The sky was just starting to change colour as the alien wound down, looking slightly annoyed at the changes in the sky.

“It’s probably best if you went to where ever you guys are staying.” John said quietly.

The alien nodded, setting down a trash can. The tentacles were amazingly strong, lifting things such as dumpsters up into the air so that the alien could look underneath as easily as a child playing with blocks.

John glanced around. “Where are you staying anyway?” He asked, then paused, his sleep fuzzy mind catching up. “Never mind. It’s probably classified and best I don’t know.”

He got an amused look for his rambling, the alien making a dismissive motion.

”Alright.” John yawned. “Will you be okay getting home?”

John got a nod return, the alien pointing upwards. “Ah. Okay.” John nodded, realising that the alien probably had stuck to the rooftops until John had insisted on _walking_.

“Well.” John stuck his hands in his pockets, resisting the urge to offer his hand to shake. The alien had been very fastidious about not touching him, and John tried to respect that. “It was a pleasure meeting you. Stay safe, alright?”

The alien nodded, giving him an amused look, then went up the side of the wall with a liquid grace that John envied.

With one last flicker of tendrils, the alien was gone.

Leaving John in his pyjamas and coat in a back alley several miles away from where he was staying.

He made it back quickly, but not before garnering several concerned looks from random passerby.

+++

The next night, just as John was about to fall asleep, he heard a strange noise outside his window.

It was the alien.

”Oh! Um. Hi.” John said, opening the window. The alien beckoned him outside and John nodded.

”Let me… I’ll just get dressed.” He said, backing up and quickly grabbing his clothing, shedding his pyjamas and scrambling into his clothing as fast as he could.

The alien waited for him as he scrambled down the stairs and into the back alley.

That night, they wandered in a different direction.

+++

The third night, John was already in his normal clothes, waiting for the alien when it appeared.

The look of amusement was reward enough.

+++

It wasn’t until a couple of nights later while mapping out the back streets of London that they ran into trouble. It was a half dozen drunk idiots, riding the high of their team winning a game of footie, and feeling invulnerable.

Why they thought that the alien was any sort of threat, John didn’t know. But suddenly mutters of ‘Calamari Scum’ and muttered slurs in the aliens direction put John’s spine up. He kept himself between the alien and the pub goers.

”They’re morons.” He muttered to alien, who was watching them like they were some sort of form of entertainment. “We’d probably best leave, they’ll most likely forget us as soon as we’re out of eyesight.”

Which is when the bottle exploded at John’s feet.

”Oi!” John shouted, waving his free arm. “We don’t want any trouble. Shove off!”

He spared a brief moment to wonder why no one ever listened to a fair warning when the first of the drunken louts staggered towards them. John quickly took him down with his cane, knocking the man out, and sending him stumbling to the ground.

The look the alien gave him was a cross between admiration and amusement. John shrugged, bracing himself for the next drunkard, who charged forward, armed with the remains of chair that had been left in the alley.

John briefly debated reaching for his gun, then dismissed it. It might work as an intimidation tactic, it might not. But the men were idiots, not soldiers. And he wasn’t prepared to draw his gun unless he intended to use it.

Should he need to use it however, he had no qualms about shooting to kill, not if it meant saving his friend's life. He'd seen too many wounded oppenents take out perfectly healthy men to play around.

John sent that man into a wall, twisting to dodge the next assailant and grunting in pain as something hard smashed into his scarred shoulder. Pain caused his vision to go black for a moment. He wildly swung his cane, trying to get some distance to fight back.

A red blur streaked past his vision, the alien launching his own retaliation. The longer tentacles were glowing crimson at the tips, touching the remaining men. They screamed and immediately collapsed, crumpling to the ground like marionettes with their strings cut.

John stared at the fallen men, clutching his wounded shoulder as he panted, riding the waves of pain and adrenaline. Then the doctor side took over and he checked on the fallen men, the ones that the alien had touched.

They were alive, pulse and respiration fine, but they were non-responsive otherwise. John put them in the recovery position, in case they vomited.

A flash of lights and sound alerted him to the fact that someone had called the police. The alien looked alarmed, tentacles flailing nervously.

”Right.” John glanced at the men he’d taken out, deciding that the police could worry about them. “Run?”

The alien nodded, and then they were off, John sprinting as fast as he could. The alien seemed to almost float along, like a dandelion seed in the wind, tentacles reaching out, grabbing things with the barest of touches, and adjusting course. It moved faster than John could, slowing a few times for John to keep up before changing course.

Just as John thought he was going to collapse, the alien stopped, propped against a wall, tendrils drooping as if tired. John leaned against the wall next to the alien, hands resting on his knees as he caught his breath.

”That…” He panted. “Was amazing.”

He got a negligent roll of the tentacles, the alien’s expression pleasantly surprised. John grinned back at the alien’s shock.

John wasn’t sure when he started laughing, only that the alien seemed to be right there along side him, tentacles shaking in mirth. “Shh, shh.” He waved a hand at the alien as he caught his breath back. “We shouldn’t giggle at crime scenes.”

That got him an incredulous look, then they were both laughing again.

John leaned his head back against the cool wall. God, he was an idiot. Laughing at getting jumped by drunks.

He looked down at the pale tentacles looping around him, close but not touching. “Paralysing agent in the tips?” He inquired. “Explains why you’re careful never to touch anything living.”

Even the rare stray cat that the alien could coax closer, it was always very careful to avoid touching it with the tentacles. One friendly cat had deigned to briefly stroke the alien’s fingertip with a cheek, but that was it.

The alien nodded and shrugged, as if the observation was dull. It was a common reaction to John’s observations.

John sighed, feeling weary. Built in self-defence mechanism. The alien could have taken out a dozen more drunks without breaking a sweat. “You really don’t need me along, do you?” He murmured, good mood evaporating.

He enjoyed spending time with the alien, wandering around, seeing the world with new eyes. He felt useful for the first time in a while, watching over the alien, this guest from another world. Having something, someone to protect again.

The alien suddenly moved in front of John, arms and tentacles surrounding him, caging him against the wall. John stared at the alien’s dark eyes. It looked almost uncomfortable, but determined.

One hand reached out, nearly touching John’s cheek, then pulled away, curled into a fist, the alien looking away in clear annoyance, tendrils drooping.

John stared in mild surprise. “I think… I understand.” He ventured. “If you didn’t want me here, I wouldn’t be.”

The alien’s gaze jerked back to John’s face, nodding quickly.

The alien was fast, much faster than John. It’d slowed down so that John could follow while running. It didn’t retaliate against the drunks until John had been hurt.

”Thank you.” John said quietly. “I enjoy your company too.”

The look he got in return he could only describe as ‘fond’ or ‘happy’, the alien leaning forward so that their foreheads almost touched. John basked in the moment, feeling more like himself than he had in a long time.

The alien finally pulled away, tendrils flickering about, reminding John of cats tails when they’ve been caught doing something they shouldn’t have been and were feigning ignorance. Finally it turned away, moving down the alley. There were still police in the area, probably looking for them.

”Although.” John said, falling into step with his strange friend. “It probably wouldn’t hurt to find some sort of disguise for you for when we’re walking around. A trench coat and a hat or something.”

The alien gave him a sideways look and shrugged, as if it would think about it.

+++

The next night, John couldn’t find his cane. He didn’t think he’d left it behind at the crime scene, he remembered having it in his hand as they took off running, but he couldn’t think of where it might have gone after that.

It wasn’t like he needed it all that much today. His leg didn’t hurt at all. His shoulder, however, was another matter entirely.

He turned around after checking out from under his bed for the 9th time in the past hour to find a strange man in his flat.

The man was tall and thin, wrapped up in a long wool coat that flared out dramatically. A cap of messy dark hair framed a pale elegant face with cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass.

John reached behind him and grabbed his gun, aiming it at the strange man. “Who are you?” He demanded. “And what do you want?”

The man stared at him, dark eyes boring into his like John should recognise him. Something twigged in the back of his brain and John’s eyebrows rose. “Cagersi?” He ventured.

The man’s eyes were solid black, no whites to them at all. Just like John’s alien friend.

He got a wide pleased grin in return, like John had just exceeded the alien’s expectations.

The alien reached up, touching something on his chest, and the human illusion flickered and faded away, leaving John’s familiar alien standing there. There was a silver harness around the alien’s chest, a disk the size of John’s palm in the front. The alien turned so that John could see the back, where there was a larger device, the tentacles moving just enough to the side for it to rest comfortably approximately where the alien’s shoulder blades would be.

Then the alien hit a button on the front disk and the pale body and tendrils faded away, leaving the tall lanky human in its place again.

”That’s… remarkable.” John breathed.

The alien preened, unseen tentacles reaching out and ruffling stuff on John’s desk. It was rather strange, knowing that they were there but unable to see them.

“The eyes are still a bit strange.” John remarked, tucking his gun back into his waistband, tucking his jumper over it. “They’re your eyes, not human at all. But from a distance, I don’t think anyone will notice.”

The alien nodded, shoving its hands back into its coat pockets, rocking on its feet, looking impatient to go.

”Alright.” John grinned, reaching for his coat. “Ready to go? And this time you can take the stairs with me.”

He got an eyeroll in return, but the alien looked pleased as it followed John down the stairwell.

+++

They were able to explore more with the disguise, travelling into the open streets. They still avoided crowds, the alien pressing as close to John as possible without actually touching whenever there were other people nearby, but it liked watching people.

Parks were a thing of wonder. So much green stuff, the alien couldn’t seem to control himself, bouncing from tree to tree, climbing up into them like a child, crouching down to peer at bold squirrels and pigeons.

”If you come during daylight, we can feed the ducks.” John commented idly as the alien peered into the water, looking in danger of falling in. “Or we could head over to St James’ park, they’ve got pelicans. Birds as tall as your waist. They mostly eat fish. And the occasional pigeon.”

The alien looked at him in delight and John wondered how to stretch his budget enough for Tube fare for both of them.

+++

A couple of days later, they were at a crime scene. They didn’t mean to be at a crime scene, or at least John didn’t mean to be, but the alien was fascinated, catching John’s attention and pointing at different people, different things, demanding information.

John explained the best he could, relaying on what he knew based off of a few incidents in Afghanistan and some crime dramas until he finally reached the end of his knowledge, only able to shrug and shake his head.

The alien grew agitated, expression twisting into frustrated annoyance, as if it had something that it wanted to communicate, but couldn’t.

“What is it?” John tilted his head to the side, trying to figure it out.

The alien waved its hands in the air, trying to pantomime something. John caught something about strangling, then eventually shook his head as the aliens gestures got wider and bigger. “Sorry, mate.” He said apologetically. “I haven’t a clue.”

The alien slumped, looking at him with annoyed despair, like it expected better of John. John spread his hands wide, unable to help in this particular area, frustrated at his own helplessness.

He caught a brief flicker of something out of the corner of his eye, then a tentacle hit him dead on in the middle of his forehead. John jerked and gasped, his vision fading away before snapping clear.

It was disorientating, looking at the world like this. There were people and colours, shadows and depth, just like always. But there was _more_ so much more.

It was like streams of data overlaid on top of everything, little bits of information constantly popping up, over, around things. Bit of dirt on a police woman’s knees, the same fragrance wafting around her as one of her co-workers, they’d had sex together not a half hour prior. The woman standing next to them tried somewhere new for lunch and had the start of food poisoning. The man next to her was a construction worker, happily married with a kid on the way.

Lots and lots of information, useless information, amazing information, bits and pieces and drips and drabs that all swarmed together to make bigger pictures, little pictures, kaleidoscopes, turn slightly and the image changes.

John looked down at himself, his boring self, and was nearly overwhelmed by the contradictions that covered him. _Killer/Healer. Weak/Strong. Innocent/Jaded. Naive/Cynic. Fearful/Brave-_

The world ripped away from him, and he sagged as he struggled to regain his equilibrium.

 _”Do you see?”_ The words echoed in his head.

John turned to stare at his alien friend. “What?”

The alien rolled its eyes. _“Do you see?”_ The voice was deeper than John expected, tones crisp and upper class. Male. Definitely male.

”I… you…”

_”Yes, yes. Not important right now. **Focus**. The killer is obviously the sister, but the police are going to accuse the girlfriend, due to the obvious ploy of wearing the girlfriend’s shoes to place her at the site when he was killed, but the weight distribution is all wrong, she’s not used to wearing heels.”_

John gaped for a second, bits and pieces that he’d seen while looking through the alien’s eyes standing out. “Oh.”

 _”Yes, ‘Oh’.”_ The alien said mockingly, shifting uncomfortably, as if bracing himself for a strike.

”That... That’s amazing.” John breathed.

He got a wide eyed look of shock. _”You think so?”_ The tone was incredulous.

“Of course. It was extraordinary!” The words bubbled up in John’s throat. To be able to take all that information, the slight little clues, and put it together into a cohesive whole… It was indescribable. “Quite extraordinary!”

The alien titled his head to the side. _”You’re not… disturbed.”_ It was less a question and more of an observation.

”Of course not.” John shrugged. “Why? What do people normally say?”

_”Piss off.”_

A bark of laughter escaped from John before he could corral it. ”Yes, well. I guess I’m not most people.” John waved it off, returning the topic back to the original subject. Not that he hung with many 'normal' people to be able to make a comparison. “We need to tell someone.”

 _”Lestrade.”_ The alien pointed towards a grey tired looking man. _”He’s the Police Inspector in charge of the case.”_

”Alright then.” John nodded, then raised his voice projecting like he hadn’t since he left Afghanistan, usually calling for assistance, more hands, more bandages, suction or tools. “Lestrade! Inspector Lestrade!”

The tired looking inspector looked in their direction, then frowned John waved him over. Inspector Lestrade handing a clipboard off to an officer as he walked closer.

John got a feeling of being impressed from the alien, not an easy feat. ”So what do I call you anyway?” John asked quietly. “They’re going to want names.”

 _”Your body is physically incapable of producing the sounds to pronounce it correctly. But you may call me Sherlock.”_ The alien straightened the lapels on his coat, looking ready to do epic battle. _“Sherlock Holmes.”_

+++

They were thrown into jail for four hours for obstruction of a police investigation while Lestrade tracked down the information that Sherlock had so easily deduced, proving the girlfriend's innocence.

John spent his time alternating between asking Sherlock little questions about things he'd been wondering about, and giggling over the mad turn in his life.

Using John as his mouthpiece, Sherlock solved five mysteries, set two fellow inmates on the straight and narrow, and correctly guessed 48 out of 50 cards that a bored inmate held up. Sherlock would have gotten them all correct, but he didn’t know what a Joker the first time, or what the Instruction sheet for Poker was.

John accused him of cheating, using his tentacles to peek at the cards. Sherlock didn’t bother trying to correct him, which John took to mean he was right.

+++

John sighed to himself as he sorted through his mail. Bills, bills, bills. His finances were dwindling fast, and he hadn’t even bothered trying to find a job the past several weeks, running around London with Sherlock.

At least his therapist thought he was improving. He couldn’t mention Sherlock, but the lack of cane was an obvious change.

He sat down heavily in his chair, setting the bills to the side. There was one letter from the Ministry of Defence and he fatalistically half-wondered if his pension was being cut. It wouldn’t entirely surprise him.

With a deep sigh, he steeled himself and ripped open the envelope, removing and unfolding the letter within. It was on a creamy heavy stationary, the expensive kind.

His file was under review for reactivation.

John let out a shaky breath, memories of Afghanistan, the hot dry sand clogging his throat for a moment.

He missed it. Missed the action, missed the feeling of being useful. Knowing he had a purpose.

A month ago, this would have been a godsent. Now… he didn’t know. Now he had the trill of running around with Sherlock and he couldn’t just leave his friend by himself in London.

With steady fingers, he read on. It was all very officious sounding, saying a lot of nothing.

Until he got to the last line, requesting he go outside, to the black car that would be waiting for him.

He set the letter down, taking a deep breath, then letting it out. John had a hunch that refusing wasn't an option. He almost reached for his gun, then changed his mind. Technically, he wasn’t supposed to have it, and it wouldn’t be much good in an enclosed space.

He grabbed a small Khyber knife that he wasn’t supposed to have either, a parting gift from a former squadron mate, and tucked it into his boot. John had pulled the blade out of the dead man’s chest after he’d been unable to save the man after a brief skirmish. It’d saved his life more than once.

Thus prepared, he went downstairs, settling his features into a bland expression as he found the black car waiting for him outside, engine running. The back door was open and John hesitantly slipped inside. The door shut automatically behind him, the car pulling away.

Inside was a pretty brunette woman, typing away at a blackberry. “Hullo.” John said, for lack of anything better to say.

She glanced up and gave him a pretty, if absent smile. “Hi.”

So she could talk. Not as likely to be an alien then. John shifted, briefly wondering when his life become so strange. Right. Alien on the ceiling. “What’s your name then?”

She thought about it for a moment. “Anthea.” She decided.

”Is that your real name?” John asked.

”No.” She returned her attention back to the blackberry.

John resisted the urge to sigh. “I’m John.”

This time she looked vaguely annoyed at the interruption. “Yes. I know.”

John nodded. Right then. “Any point in asking where I’m going?” He ventured hopefully.

The smile was almost genuine, if predatory. “None at all.”

”Okay.” John leaned back in the seat. Lovely. Just lovely.

The car drove him around in circles before driving into a warehouse. There was a single man waiting for him, posing with an umbrella. His appearance was vaguely familiar, setting John on edge as he approached. He screamed wealth and power.

He probably should have brought the gun as well as the knife.

“Have a seat.” The man said, gesturing to a plain folding chair resting several steps away from the man.

”No.” John settled himself at a loose parade rest. “Thank you.” The man seemed somewhat familiar, like John had seen him somewhere before.

This seemed to amuse the man. “You… don’t seem very afraid.”

One of John’s eyebrows flickered upwards. “You don’t seem very frightening.”

Which was the frightening part. It was never the obvious thing one needed to keep an eye out for.

”Yes…” The man seemed to draw the word out, just shy of laughing. “The bravery of the soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think? What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?”

”Who?” The blank facade was easy enough to maintain, even if he was panicking internally. Protecting Sherlock from drunk thugs was one thing. From mysterious men in black another.

This earned him an affable smile. “Come now. The man you spent four hours in a prison cell with yesterday afternoon. Whom you’ve been running around with for the past fortnight and a half.”

”Can’t recall.” John lied. “And you are?”

”An interested party.” The man drawled smoothly. “The closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having.”

Which did nothing to reassure John. The man casually twirled the umbrella, striking a different casual pose. “Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?”

John frowned. “I could be wrong... but I think that's none of your business.”

“It could be.” The stranger offered helpfully.

”It really couldn't.” John insisted.

”Well, if you do continue hanging around Sherlock Holmes.” He got another affable smile that reminded John of a used car sales man. “I’d be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to ease your way.”

Money. It always seemed to come down to money. And Power. ”Why?”

“Because you're not a wealthy man.”

John avoided flinching. If something sounded too good to be true, it usually was. “In exchange for what?”

“Information.” The word was smooth, as if a minor triviality. “Nothing indiscreet. Nothing you'd feel... uncomfortable with. Just tell me what he's up to.”

That left much too much open to interpretation. There was enough mixed hostility and admiration in the man for John to feel uncomfortable sharing much of anything he learned about his friend. “Why?”

“I worry about him.” The man twirled his umbrella. “Constantly.” The man gave a heavy dramatic sigh.

”No. Thank you.” John said rigidly as the sigh finally triggered it in John’s head. He’d heard the same sigh on the television, not two days prior. The words were out of John’s mouth before he could rein them in, find some way to use them to his advantage. ”You’re the Cagersi ambassador.”

The man looked delighted. “Yes.” That explained how he knew Sherlock’s name. “Mycroft. Mycroft Holmes.”

”Any relation to Sherlock?” John asked curiously.

”My little brother.” Mycroft shook his head. “You know how it is, watching over them, trying to protect them on strange planets.”

Yes and no. He doubted he’d kidnap random people and drag them to abandon warehouses for Harry.

John shifted slightly. “How come your mouth moves when you talk?” He asked curiously.

Mycroft looked like John had just punched him in the gut. “What?”

”Sherlock.” John tilted his head. “When he talks, I can hear it in my head. His mouth doesn’t move and no one else can hear it.”

”He… Oh, my.” Mycroft touched his chest and the illusion wavered, then disappeared, revealing Mycroft’s Cagersi body. He was tall, but slightly broader than Sherlock, his skin a faintly darker shade.

”You’ll have to forgive my surprise.” Mycroft said, touching the collar around his neck, that had what looked like a round speaker box attached to it. “He refused the translation collar, so I had assumed he could not talk with anyone. Tell me, has he been in physical contact with you at all?”

John shifted, uncomfortable with the question. Mycroft’s gaze flickered almost apologetically. “I see the answer to my question is yes.” He murmured.

“Once.” John nodded, feeling like he was giving something away with the confirmation. “To explain the solution to a murder.”

“Of course.” Mycroft drawled, tendrils flickering, somewhere between resigned and amused. “On our planet, he is what I suppose you could a ‘Detective’. Or perhaps ‘Consultant’ would be a better term. A Consulting Detective. This brought him a deal of satisfaction and ostracization. His mind is… He is extraordinary. Even among us.”

”Yes.” John agreed thickly, remembering the glimpse of the world as Sherlock viewed it. “Yes, he really is.”

Mycroft smiled at him. It was strange, how it was easier to read Mycroft like this, than in his human disguise. It was like John was missing a large portion of communication without being able to see the tentacles.

”He gained enemies on Cagersi in his quest to uncover truth.” Mycroft said sadly. “A powerful enemy in particular. Moriarty. I brought him here, to your Earth where Moriarty cannot get to him.”

”You fear he still can.” John murmured, reading between the lines.

”Yes.” Mycroft nodded. “Tell me, John. Have you ever had hunches?”

”Yes.” John nodded, blindsided by the abrupt change in conversation. “Frequently.”

”And are they correct if you follow them?” Mycroft pressed, yes intense.

”Usually.” John agreed.

”Ah.” Mycroft looked pleased, murmuring to himself about ‘low level psi’.

”I’m sorry.” John shifted, trying to figure out where the conversation was going. “What does that have to do with anything?”

”Nothing.” Mycroft smiled. “My brother is just ignoring social norms again. How delightful. Thank you, Doctor Watson. Anthea, please give the good doctor the blue packet. The red one will not be needed.”

John had the feeling that he might have just dodged a very dangerous bullet. “Travel safe, John. Please take good care of my brother.” Mycroft said, turning on his human disguise again, then walking away.

John stared after him, completely lost. Anthea cleared her throat, drawing his attention back to her and the car. She had four envelopes in her hand, one in each primary colour, and one black one that John eyed with trepidation.

”Congratulations.” She said, handing the blue one to him. “You’ve just been upgraded to Security Clearance Three. Please open this once we reach our destination.”

”Oh… kay.” John said, taking the blue envelope. He sat down on the soft black leather seats of the car, trying to make sense of the conversation he just had.

He glanced over at Anthea. “You’re Cagersi too, aren’t you?”

Her gaze flickered up at him. “Of course.”

Right. He nodded. No wonder he had a hard time reading her. No visible tentacles. John leaned back and rubbed his eyes.

Any moment now, Rod Sterling was going to walk by and announce that this was another glimpse into the Twilight Zone.

A few minutes later, the car pulled up infront of a neat brownhouse. “This is your stop.” Anthea informed him, not unkindly. “221b Baker Street.”

”Er. Right.” John shook his head. They were no where near his flat. “Thanks.”

She smiled at him, then turned back to her blackberry. John nodded at her, then slipped out of the car, the door shutting behind him. The car drove off, completely silent in the London traffic.

John debated if he’d just ridden in a space ship. Shaking off the thought off, he walked up the steps and rang the bell.

An older woman opened the door. “Oh, hello dear.” She said with a wide sincere smile. “We’ve been waiting for you, Doctor Watson.”

”Urm. Oh.” He fidgeted.

”I’m Mrs. Hudson, your landlady. Former MI7.” She said, ushering him with a maternal air. “Sherlock’s just upstairs, we’ve already got your things moved in. There’s also the upstairs bedroom, if you need two bedrooms.”

”I… Why wouldn’t we be needing two?” John said, completely sidetracked as she ushered him up the stairs.

”Oh, don't worry, there's all sorts round here.” Mrs Hudson waved it off. “Mrs. Turner next door's got married ones. Oh... Sherlock!” She knocked once and opened the door. “How many times do I need to tell you to keep your disguise generator on?”

Inside was a Victorian flat, bright horrible wallpaper, books of shelves taking up much of the room, and papers scattered everywhere. There was a skull on the fireplace mantel.

It needed a good cleaning.

Sherlock was sprawled out on the sofa, pale tendrils draped everywhere, obviously in his element. He gave them a negligent wave of his tentacles, obviously lost inside his own mind.

”And you have company too.” Mrs. Hudson scolded. “You could at least say hello to Doctor Watson like a civilised person.”

That caught Sherlock’s attention, the alien raising his head to stare at John for a moment before springing to his feet. _”John!”_

“Hullo.” John waved. “I’ve just had a lovely meeting with your brother.” He said, holding up the folder.

 _“Mycroft.”_ Sherlock practically spat the word. _”Did he offer you money to spy on me?”_ He asked, deflating slightly.

Mrs. Hudson patted John on the arm, briefly catching his attention. "I'll just let you two be." She said, turning and leaving. "Don't forget your envelope, dear."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson." John turned back to Sherlock. ”Yes, and I turned him down.” Him assured Sherlock, undoing the clasp on the large envelope and pulling out the papers.

 _”Pity.”_ Sherlock slumped back down on the sofa, a tentacle draped dramatically over his eyes. _”We could have split the fee.”_

“I… oh.” John swallowed as he read the top sheet. “It looks like we still can.”

The tentacle shifted so Sherlock could open one eye at John. _”What?_

”I’ve been reactivated.” John held up the paper. “Hazard Duty. Acting as the guard to one Sherlock Holmes, diplomat of the Cagersi People. Based out of 221b Baker Street.”

 _”WHAT?!"_ Sherlock was back on his feet, grabbing the paper out of John’s hands, eyes skimming out of it. _”Why, that meddling…”_

He pulled the rest of the papers out, including his new pay grade. John stared at the zeroes for a moment, realising that he wasn’t going to have to worry about milk for tea for a while. Sherlock made a disgusted noise and flung the paper back over his shoulder.

John walked over to the armchair next to the sofa with the union jack pillow and sank down on it. He’d been moved into a new flat and given a new job, all without a word from him. Or at least he assumed he’d been moved in, he’d have to check in a minute.

”Sherlock?”

_”Hmm?”_

”Why was your brother asking if we've been in physical contact?” John asked carefully. “I could hear both he and Athena too. He had some sort of collar thing.”

Sherlock twisted around, so he was looking at John, tentacles flailing as they flipped around to new configurations. _“It hurts.”_ Sherlock said quietly, like he was trying to broach a delicate subject. _“The translation collar. It doesn’t affect Mycroft and his assistant as much, their thoughts are easier to transmit.”_

”Yours are too complicated.” John mused. Layers upon layers. Sherlock nodded.

 _”My… species. We communicate telepathically among family units. And only family units.”_ Sherlock stared at him unblinkingly with those large dark eyes.

”Telepathic through touch?” John hazard. “Which is why you were so careful about not touching anyone.” Aside from the whole 'paralyzing bit'.

Except that Sherlock **had** touched John. And John could hear Sherlock in his head.

 _”It’s mostly a one-way link.”_ Sherlock said quietly. _”I can’t hear what you’re thinking, it’s more of an awareness on my side, if you’re healthy or not. But it enables you to ‘hear’ me. It was a gamble on my part, humans are notoriously psi-null.”_

”Mycroft muttered something about low level.” John shrugged. “Asked about my hunches.”

John got a murmured flow from Sherlock, more of a musing train of thought that he didn’t entirely follow.

“So if this is something that only family members do, does this mean we’re now family?” John asked, trying to lighten the mood.

Sherlock went abnormally still, even the tips of his tendrils not moving.

John had a horrible hunch. “Wait… Does this mean we’re now MARRIED?!”

Sherlock didn’t say anything, but his gaze dropped. John leaned back in the chair, covering his face with a hand, feeling a headache starting on.

 _”I can remove the link if it makes you uncomfortable.”_ Sherlock murmured apologetically, tendrils shifting restlessly.

”No. Wait.” John held up a hand. “I’ve been kidnapped, moved into a completely new house, and married all within the past several hours, without any feedback from me at all. Give me a moment to adjust.”

Amazingly, Sherlock waited, tendrils occasionally shifting restlessly.

John wondered if it was possible for his life to get any weirder. Seriously. There had to be a limit somewhere.

_”… John?”_

”It’s alright, Sherlock.” John finally sighed, looking at his friend. Husband. Alien. Whatever. “It’s all fine.”

 _"Truely?"_ Sherlock didn't sound convinced, but willing to be. John wondered how many people Sherlock was close to back at his home planet, with how nervous he seemed at losing the company of a wounded old soldier.

"Maybe not just yet." John granted. "But it will be. I'm not leaving, Sherlock. ...Not unless you want me to."

Sherlock stared at him for a moment more, then extended out a tendril. John reached up and brushed his fingers against it, feeling the connection like an electric spark in his brain.

He could feel Sherlock, nervous and worried that he was going to be shoved away. John pressed his hand against the smooth tentacle, granting Sherlock more access, bring the feeling of companionship to the fore of his mind, the enjoyment he got from Sherlock's mad company, how alive he felt around his friend.

Something in Sherlock relaxed and he let the tendril drop, the intense feeling of having someone else in his head fading away.

 _"No."_ Sherlock said with a warm ting to his voice. _"I don't want you to leave."_

"There you go then." John smiled back.

He got a hint of amusement back from Sherlock, the two of them lapsing into comfortable silence.

”Tea?” John finally offered, rising to his feet. Life went on. There had to be a kettle somewhere in the flat.

_”Tea would be lovely.”_

-fin-

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> _Totally did not make up the[Pelican eating the Pigeon](http://www.metro.co.uk/weird/844079-pelican-makes-pigeon-dinner-out-of-poor-bird) at St. James Park._
> 
>  
> 
> _According to some conspiracy theorists, the now defunct MI7 ([Military Intelligence "Head Office"](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/MI7)) handles extraterrestrial matters. _


End file.
